


Scenes from a Haus

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Gen, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Makeup, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-10 06:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: This is a collection of 500-word drabbles. They have no real connection to each other, they're just a few of my early attempts to write in the "Check Please!" universe, which is new to me. I'll be updating tags and stuff as I go, but any and all characters may appear here.Feedback would be great, as I am still trying to figure out what I want to write/if I want to write in this 'verse and I don't have a good idea of what is in demand. These guys are just too much fun not to attempt to play with them.





	1. What You Don't Want to Hear

Bitty didn’t believe in gaydar. A couple of early misidentifications led him to believe it better not to make assumptions. He did look for clues. He tried not to be obvious about it, but he’d promised himself when he got to Samwell, with its queer-friendly culture and high odds population, he would take more chances than he’d been able to in Georgia. To do that, he needed to know on whom to take them.

His teammates were the people he knew first and best. Johnson appeared to be totally straight, to the extent he was interested in humans at all. Bitty wondered if the amount of time Ransom and Holster spent talking about girls was an intentional misdirection from their feelings for each other, but they were out of bounds either way. Shitty was open about his “theoretical bisexuality,” telling Bitty the first time he visited the Haus that he’d been pretty straight so far, but “was always open to new experiences.” He was, however, so far gone on Lardo it didn’t matter.

Then there was Jack.

For months, Bitty could get no read. Jack existed on a hockey-only plane, where something as mundane as sexuality wasn’t a topic of concern. He got a lot of chirping about his female fans, and all the tail he could be getting, but he never showed any indication of interest. There was something about him, though, some look that occasionally passed over his face, some spark, that Bitty occasionally felt. Bitty tried to ignore it--he knew it was most likely wishful thinking. Sure, one in four Wellies might be queer, but it was not likely that Jack Zimmermann was that 25%. 

When Winter Screw came along, Bitty finally came out to his unsurprised and unbothered teammates. It was wonderfully anticlimactic. 

Jack had a date.

A female date.

There was an after-party at the Haus. Bitty had been drinking enough to feel soft and sleepy, and he was nodding off watching round after round of beer pong when Shitty jostled him awake. “Go crash in my room, bro. I’m not gonna make it up the stairs.”

Bitty took the offer gratefully. It was a long way back to the dorms.

Bitty hadn’t missed Jack at the party--Jack never came to parties. He hadn’t thought much of him at all, until he was on Shitty’s bed, his eyes closed, the noises from the party downstairs receding. 

He heard the unmistakable sound of bedsprings, a female giggle, a gasp. It wasn’t loud--if Bitty hadn’t been lying with his head at the foot of Shitty’s bed at just the right moment, if the door between Shitty’s room and the bathroom hadn’t been open, he probably wouldn’t have heard it at all. Was it coming from upstairs? Had Ransom or Holster brought a girl home? After another peel of giggles, a familiar voice said “Tais-toi! Tas-toi!” followed by a new version of the groan Jack made when biting into a slice of apple pie.

Fuck.


	2. A Reason to Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning on this one, y'all. The implication of past abuse/violence. Just skip right over it if needs be.

“So, have you seen somebody about it?”

Bitty frowned, looking up from where he was rolling out crust. “Seen somebody about what?”

Shitty looked at him across the counter, kind but determined. “The getting hit thing.”

Bitty’s frown deepened. “My Lord. It’s not pathological. It’s not a big deal.”

Shitty shook his head. “Seems to me that usually, when someone is afraid of something, there’s a reason.” 

Bitty’s shoulders tensed. “Good sense?” he asked. “Y’all outweigh me by about a hundred pounds apiece. I’d be silly to want you to smash into me.”

“Yeah, but you’re not afraid of pain,” Shitty pressed. “Be honest, Bits. Is playing hockey anything near as hard as figure skating was?”

Bitty looked intently at the crust. “No.” 

“That’s what I thought. I’ve read about the shit they put figure skaters through. Getting checked is nothing. So there’s something specific going on.” He took a step closer, close enough to reach out and touch Bitty’s arm. “You don’t have to tell me what it is, Bits, but you should tell somebody. It’s going to fuck up your hockey, and we all want you on our team.”

Bitty looked up, clearly trying to hold his face still. “Thanks. But there’s really nothing to talk about. I just have to get over it, is all.” He smiled, bright and forced. “Any pie filling preferences?”

“I’m not going to let you change the subject.” Shitty moved forward a bit more, crowding into Bitty’s space enough to keep him from returning to his rolling pin. “Is it being near people at all?” 

Bitty glared, realizing he was being tested. “No,” he said, reaching out and wrapping both arms around Shitty’s waist to prove his point. “I have no problem being near people.”

Shitty grinned and returned the hug before he backed away. “Good! Great!”

Bitty shook his head. “I swear, you’re a pest.” 

“It’s my job, as spiritual leader and Happiness Guru of this Haus and this team, to involve myself in these things.” Shitty’s voice was serious.

“Goodness, you really believe that, too,” Bitty murmured, reaching for the flour. “This isn’t something you need to worry about. Did Jack say something?”

“No,” Shitty responded. “But it’s not like you’re hiding it. I mean, you collapsed in practice yesterday when Rans got within a mile of you.” He was standing a few feet away now, but his gaze was intense. “Hey Bits? Your dad is a football coach, right? Did you used to play? Did you get a bad hit?”

Bitty shook his head. “Nope. Coach took one look at baby me and knew football wasn’t going to happen.” The smile appeared was more forced now.

Shitty’s intent eyes turned sad. Something in Bitty’s voice had inadvertently given him the answer. “Bits, did...somebody hit you?”

Bitty didn’t say anything for a long time. When he did, it was with a high chin and a clear voice. “If you don’t mind, I’d just like to bake my pie now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


	3. Just Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter is about having a panic attack.

In through the nose. One, two, three, four, five. Out through the mouth. One, two, three, four, five. Again. Again.

Jack sat on bedroom floor, rocking. Concentrate on breathing. All you have to do is breathe. One, two, three four, five. Closed eyes. Onetwothreefourfive. No, slow. One, two, three, four, five. Body rocking harder, heart racing. Just breathe.

It could have been just a couple of minutes, but it felt like hours. Jack breathed. He tried not to think, and he breathed. He rocked, he wiped his sweaty hands against his shorts, and he breathed. Tears rolled down his face, and he rocked, and he breathed.

Eventually, his heart slowed and he stopped crying. He came back to himself, his skin too tight, his body too big to fit into the tiny space he wished he were in. The Haus was too quiet. The knocking on his door had stopped. 

After years of therapy, he knew what to do. He knew how to breathe and wait and count and wait and ride through it. He knew how to maintain a routine, to keep himself from being surprised, to narrow his focus, to push distractions out. To get enough sleep and enough cardio and enough water and enough protein. Some parts were hard--the voice in his head never really got any better, and he never really got any better at ignoring it. Some parts were easier than they could be--he didn’t miss feeling hazy and half-asleep from too many pills. This part never changed. He shook and cried and breathed and breathed and breathed.

Jack tried to hear his therapist’s voice in his head. “Go back. When did your heart start racing? What happened to begin this chain of events? Is it something you can change, or something you must learn to accept?” Sometimes he couldn’t find the catalyst. Sometimes he was fine one minute and the next he was on the floor. Today he knew. 

He was out of time. The life he’d built at Samwell, despite himself, the safety and security, the friendship--it was over. His plans were made, he knew where he was going and when, but he tried so hard not to think about what it meant giving up. Today he was going to graduate, to put on his robe and pose for photographs. He was surrounded by boxes in a room that wasn’t his anymore, and he was going to have to say goodbye. Goodbye to Faber and to Annie’s and to the stupid fucking Swallow and to playing the best feeling hockey he’d ever played. Most of all, goodbye to his friends--his Samwell family. Only in the past months had he really know how much they mattered, and now he had to leave them behind. For so long he’d thought alone was what he wanted--alone would be easier, alone would be safer. Now alone was the most frightening thing he could imagine.

He started to gasp again. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe. Just breathe.


	4. Putting On a Shitty Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the purely silly.

“Hold still, bro. Seriously.”

“I am holding still!”

Jack cocked an eyebrow as he opened his bedroom door. The door to the shared bathroom between his room and Shitty’s was slightly open, and the conversation appeared to be coming from there.

“This is gonna end up all over your face if you keep moving.” That sounded like Lardo, and Jack could hear a mix of irritation and amusement in her voice.

“Don’t get it all over me! Just put it on my mouth!” That was definitely Shitty. What in God’s name were they doing? 

“Maybe I should focus on your eyes,” Lardo mused. “Your ‘stache is kinda in the way.” 

“I want to wear all of it, though,” Shitty replied. “And maybe some of that blue stuff? I like that color.”

Unable to help himself, Jack pulled the door the rest of the way open. He bit his lips to keep from laughing aloud at what he saw.

Shitty was sitting on the bathroom counter, shirtless (of course), his flow pulled tightly back. Lardo was on tiptoe between his spread knees, her tongue sticking slightly out in concentration, attempting to apply lipstick to his mouth without getting it in his mustache. Other cosmetics littered the counter, and Shitty’s eyes appeared already to have been lined and mascaraed. 

“Hi, Jack!” Shitty said cheerfully, the movement causing Lardo’s hand to slip and lipstick to careen over part of his cheek.

“Goddammit,” Lardo grouched. “That was your fault.”

“Uh...what are you guys doing?” Jack was still trying not to laugh. 

“Experimenting!” Shitty said brightly. “We’re going to a movie tonight, and I thought I’d get pretty first.”

Then Jack did laugh. It wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was amusing.

“Not funny, bro,” Shitty said, shaking his head. “Makeup is heteronormative misogynist garbage, but it’s fun to have Lardo paint on you.”

Lardo nodded, rubbing vigorously at the lipstick smear with a square of toilet paper. “Not like I want to wear this shit,” she said. “And the liner really does make your eyes look brighter.” She returned her focus to Shitty’s lips, looking determined. 

A moment later, Ransom and Holster appeared in the doorway, looking questioning. When Jack beckoned them in, they observed Shitty and Lardo and began to add suggestions.

“Give him some of that bronzer,” Holster said. “He’s too pale.”

“Can you use a highlighter to bring out his cheekbones?” Ransom asked. “He could use some contouring.”

“Damn, hard on a man’s self-esteem!” Shitty griped. 

“Shut up,” said Lardo, reaching for a brush. “You want the feminine experience? That’s it right there.” She shot a glance at Ransom and Holster. “Very well done, bros.”

“What are y’all up to in here?” Bitty’s voice came from outside Jack’s door. He hesitated, waiting to be invited in.

“Come see this, Bits,” Jack said, motioning to the bathroom.

Bitty walked in, took in the scene, and looked thoughtful. “Put some Vaseline in his mustache first,” he recommended. “That way the lipstick won’t set.”


	5. Become Who You Are

Larissa often felt like she was outside her body, watching herself. Part of it was the pot, but part of it was the frequency with which she found herself doing and saying things she would never have expected. 

She looked around her room--paints, half-dried canvases, pieces of trash for sculpture, clothes, electronics, photographs. Mostly, it was what her high school self would have pictured for college. Except for the SMH schedules. Except for the SMH hockey jacket, and the stray tape, and the stack of game pucks. Except for the Harvard law student with the funny mustache and the green eyes, lying on her bed in boxers, frowning over a book. She’d imagined none of those things.

Larissa arrived at Samwell a tiny, scared girl with a fierce independent streak and a definite idea of what college would be. College would be Art. She would do nothing but drink black coffee and frown and think serious thoughts. Before she’d even begun to fill in the details of those ideas, something else happened.

For the first time in her short life, Larissa discovered fun. 

Her childhood hadn’t been abusive or anything, she was just a serious kid with serious parents and serious goals. She did what was expected of her, and she planned for the future. She didn’t spend much time thinking about whether she was enjoying herself. In her first week at Samwell, she stumbled upon a group of sophomores. They appealed to her more than her own class, who seemed unable to shut their mouths or hold their liquor. They weren’t the kind of people she’d expected to find--instead of drinking coffee with grim-faced art students, she found herself being taught beer pong by a giant gang of hockey players, welcomed into their circle for no other reason than they thought she was funny, or maybe because she had a natural talent for flip cup. 

From there it spiraled. Larissa became Lardo, and she still did her art, and still drank her coffee black, and still rolled her eyes, but she also managed a hockey team. She also did keg stands and rode piggy back on the shoulders of giant man-boys in athletic gear. She also fell in love with the world’s most woke frat boy, a man who wore crop tops and open vests without irony and never met a sentence that didn’t need a “fuck”. She fell in love with a sport where grown men hit each other in the face, and in love with a family who created and nourished and protected each other. 

Larissa came to college to find herself. Her high school dreams came true--sitting in intense lectures, working all night in the quiet library, making paintings twice her own size. Dreams she never knew she had came true, too. When she looked down at herself, mixing paint while her woke frat boy mustachioed law student boyfriend read in her hipster frat house room, she knew exactly who she was, and she liked her.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!


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